Enough
by Loud-Bass-Woman
Summary: Why Draco always has blood on his shirt when he comes back to Hogwarts after the weekend, why his mother hates him and why his father wants to prove.


A/N: Please read. You will make me happy. And it includes a bit of Pansy & Theo Nott too!

Disclaimer: Nm.

Warnings: Implied rape, incest, violence, Slytherins.

**Enough**

When they request me to come home for the weekend, I tell Theodore and Pansy that I've got a trial with a famous Quidditch team, or that I'm being interviewed for one of the most prestigious jobs in the Ministry of Magic for young wizards.

Actually, I don't just tell. I boast.

I look smug and boast about how lucky I am, how brilliant I am, and I sneer at Theodore when he frowns and says 'I swear no one under sixteen is allowed to join the Ministry of Magic' and smirk when Pansy cooes and squeals and pretends she knows what I'm talking about but then quietly asks Blaise what 'prestigious' means when she thinks I'm out of hearing range.

The truth is, they want me home just to prove it.

Prove it?

Anything.

Father wants me to look like him, Mother doesn't like that I look like him, and I just don't want to look. At all.

I want to prove myself to Father, I want to prove to Mother that I am _not _Father, Father wants to prove his only heir is actually worth all the trouble, Mother wants to prove Merlin-knows-what.

Mother hates him, you see, so, on reflection, she hates me. Hates me for looking like him, even though I don't, not according to him.

She never wanted to marry him, it was all arranged – the Malfoys and the Blacks, two of the most pureblooded families who have a deep interest in the Dark Arts, coming together as one to form an heir, uber-evil, super-pureblooded, amazingly talented, devastatingly beautiful, quick-witted, cunning, smart, second top Death Eater next to Lucius Malfoy . . .

That was what was supposed to happen, the heir they were supposed to get.

But they got me.

I'm not as smart as I could be (the Mudblood always beats me fuckingbitchfuckingbitchfucking_bitch_), not as athletic as I should be (Potter beats me all the time thebastardthebastardthemotherless_bastard_), not as good-looking as I should be if I had been loved (frail bones, no muscle, small fractured ribs, not enough colour in my cheeks, not enough fairness in my hair, not enough greyness in my eyes, just not fucking _enough _of anything), and not as evil enough as . . . well . . . Father.

Mother looks at me, and she sees him.

So she slaps me and screams at me and throws vases at me and sobs at me and I just stand there and take it all and let her pound all her frustrations out with her sharp nails and her acidic words and _why do you have to be him, why do you have to torture me so, why can't you just die, Dracowhycan'tyoujustDIE?_

Father looks at me, and doesn't see enough of himself in me.

So he scowls at me and sneers at me and embarrasses me in front of Severus and his friends and he bruises me and uses me and everyone is laughing apart from Severus and he disgusts me with his words and his actions but it's my fault because I'm not good enough so I just lie there and take it with my legs up in the air and all the emotion wiped off my face and the Death Eater friends laughing, laughing, laughing all around me . . .

I, however, do not look at myself at all.

I know what I would see if I did.

I'd see an array of bruises and sickening scrapes on my soul laid bare and in my own eyes I'd be nothing, nothing but a pathetic little weakling who couldn't even be good enough with the blood of the Blacks and the Malfoys in him, couldn't be good enough to beat the Mudblood in one little exam, couldn't be good enough to beat Potter in one fucking Quidditch match, couldn't be good enough to be as loved as Weasley, just could _not _be good enough.

"Mother?" I ask tentatively. She is sobbing in the corner, with her hands over her face. The red nail polish on them is chipped, and her hair is mussed up.

Father will be angry if he sees her like this.

"Mother," I try again, "are you alright?"

She looks at me and then all I hear is _I HATE YOU_ and all Ifeel is the familiar stinging pain of sharp jagged nails piercing my skin and all I do is stand there and try not to be pushed backwards from the force of her launching herself at me.

She collapses once again, sobbing, and I sigh and turn around and slowly trudge upstairs to my room and get the House Elves to wash the blood of my robes like they always do.

And then at dinner her cheeks will be tinged with pink because she will be embarrassed for losing control like that – like many many times before – but she will never look down from my gaze because I am a Malfoy and she is a Black and she thinks I'm Father and I sometimes wish I wasn't part of this family and Father will pretend not to notice the tension and the scrapes on my neck and underneath my eye and the smooth crescent-shaped marks all over the side of my face and we will eat in silence – silent silence – and then Father will put his napkin down and clear his throat and smile woodenly and say

_Come with me, Draco_

and then I shall be 'taught' how to be good enough and the next day I shall go back to Hogwarts not being able to sit down for long periods of time and walking with a slight limp because it will be too painful and put all thoughts of why I look like Father don't look like Father away into the back of my mind and I will smirk and snigger and make fun of _everyone_

and when Theodore asks me how my training or interview went during the weekend and where the bruises on my neck

the blood on my shirt

the cut under my eye

the mark on my collarbone

the sprained ankle came from, I will smile emotionlessly and say, "It's nothing, Theodore, I just wasn't good

enough."

End.


End file.
